


colour on a black and white canvas

by whisperdlullaby



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, High School, M/M, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperdlullaby/pseuds/whisperdlullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“it’s fun, isn’t it?” he whispers, voice cold, piercing through the muggy air. “falling but never hitting the ground.” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	colour on a black and white canvas

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on lj with user repulsive_x in 2009

It was twelfth grade when you first met him. You were seventeen, watching the blue pill disappear between the pink of his lips. He smiled at you through the dirty mirror, eyes wicked, they were laughing, at you. 

You were seventeen. Honor roll, friends, family. You looked at him, translucent skin under pale light, and you were falling so hard. 

You had seen him before. Maybe. Walking down the halls of the school, graceful. Surrounded but yet alone. So alone. He was beauty. Perfection. 

He was perfect in the most imperfect way. 

He looked at you through the mirror, and you, Jon Walker, most likely to succeed said, “hey.” 

He laughed harder, concave stomach twitching under his thin t-shirt, the corner of his eyes twitching up into half-moons. “I can set you free,” he said. 

You closed your eyes, saw black, and thought, free. 

 

They told you then. They saw the look in your eyes, the way your fingers twitched in his presence. 

They saw him. The beauty, the perfection. 

The grace. 

Elegance. 

The light. The glow. 

The cigarettes. The pills. The powder. The bones. The eyes. The rips. Tears. Cuts. Bruises. 

Imperfection. 

They said, “stay away.” 

 

You didn’t. 

 

“Jonny Walker,” he says, cold fingers touching your warm skin. Fingers digging into elbows, touching bone. “Don’t you ever just want to run? Run so far away and never look back?” 

“Canada,” he says. “Haven’t you ever wanted to go to Canada? We can go to Canada.” A single drop of vibrant crimson falls from his nose, resting against the plump of his lips. It’s color on a black and white canvas. “We can be free.” 

There’s a puddle on the floor now, and Brendon watches it, the bitter redredred streaming from his nose. It’s red, the color of his first F scribbled across paper. 

He laughs, blood on his tongue. 

Drip. 

Beauty. 

Drip. 

Perfection. 

Drip. 

You will be a man. 

Drip. Drip. 

Free. 

 

A letter comes in the mail. It’s addressed Jonathon J. Walker. You crumple it up, shove it in your back pocket. 

Later, Brendon puts a lighter to it, watching as the white paper turns from red, to black, to nothing. Nothing. You watch as the P the R the I the N the C-E-T-O- N shrivel up, disappear. You watch as the ashes float away, up into the sky, against the strong glow of the stars. 

Free, you think. Freefreefree. 

You will be a man. 

You will be what I could never be. 

 

“Jon,” they say. “He’s destructive. He’s tearing you down. Cant you see?” 

And you, you said, “no, he’s setting me free.” 

 

You’re high. So high up that you can taste heaven on the tip of your tongue. It warms you. A pool of heat at the pit of your stomach. 

Up here you can breathe. Up here you are free. 

He’s on the edge, looking down the hundreds, maybe millions of flights. He’s looking at the tiny specks below, racing. Always racing. Where? You don't know.

He has a whiskey bottle, clutched tight in his left hand. He’s close, so close to the edge, the tips of his toes floating into nothing. 

You sit with your back against the vent, watching. Always watching. You stay, you watch, but you don’t speak, you don’t go and rescue him for the edge. Because he’s Brendon. 

He’s beautiful. 

He’s perfect. 

He’s graceful. 

He doesn’t go falling from rooftop edges, high above the lights of the city. 

He’s Brendon. He’s free. 

 

He’s tiny between your hands. His cold, gaunt skin between your fingers. 

You hold him and you’re scared you might break him. That he might crumple between the tips of your fingers, and disappear. That he’ll be nothing. 

He’s perfect in the most imperfect way. 

When he kisses you, grey lips against yours, you think, maybe one day, if you’re lucky, you’ll be just like him. 

Practice, you think, makes perfect. 

 

You're on your knees, watching your vomit spatter onto the stained porcelain. 

It’s all pills. Alcohol. Crushed Skittles. 

It’s color on a black and white canvas. 

Brendon comes, pulls your head onto his lap, spidery fingers threading through your hair. “It’s fun, isn’t it?” He whispers, voice cold, piercing through the muggy air. “Falling but never hitting the ground.” 

He says, “it’s almost like you're flying.” 

Like your free. 

You will be a man, you hear, clouded in the lost expanses of your brain. 

You think, hey dad, am I a man now? 

 

He flashes some money across your face. He’s smiling, dried come at the corner of his mouth. 

There’s no color this time. It’s all black and white, blackwhiteblackwhite. 

Brendon kisses you, and you gag, the taste of someone else on the tip of your tongue. 

Across town, you can hear the music to your graduation. You can see your friends in their gowns, sweeping down to their feet. You can see your parents, your dad. You can see disappointment in his eyes. 

Falling, you think, it’s almost like flying. 

It’s almost like being free. 

It’s almost like being a man. 

 

Brendon’s sitting beside you, skillful tongue flicking out against the sticky, white paper. 

White and black. Black and white. 

You see them, your friends. The ones that told you to stay away. 

“He’s tearing you down,” they said. A tear falls down one of their flushed cheeks. “Cant you see?” 

That was months ago, maybe years. You haven’t spoken to them since. 

Now, they pass by you, laughing. Smiles brighter than the stars. And they don’t see you. They don’t see you falling. They don’t see you, a man, with dirt on your cheeks, grass stains on your knees. 

Brendon lights the tip of the joint, and inhales, filling his blackblackblack lungs with smoke. You watch as the white paper burns, as it turns to black, fades away. Disappears, just like the Princeton letter, the one that determined your whole future. The one that flew away into the night sky, into the stars. The one that set you free. 

 

You’re crouched in a backlane somewhere, the dull light from the full moon washing over you. It’s dirty, staining your skin, leaking into your soul. 

Brendon’s shaking beside you, nimble fingers fiddling with what used to be a hot pink lighter. Now it’s black, all black. 

He touches the flame to the crystal, and inhales. You watch his skinny chest rise and fall in the darkness. 

You press your head into the hard brick behind you. You close your eyes, and dig your sharp fingernails into your palm. You dig, and dig, until you feel bone. 

You listen to the blood spatter against the concrete. Listen to the sharp inhale of Brendon’s breath. Listen to the black of his lungs. 

Drip. 

Black. 

Drip. 

White. 

Drip. Drip. 

Falling. 

Free. 

 

This is your masterpiece. Your portrait. 

This is Brendon standing on the street corner, the black of his blood pouring from his nose, his mouth, his wrists. There’s the blood, dripping onto the grey concrete. 

Drip. Drip. 

This is you falling. Falling against the sheer blackness of the night, the stars hidden. 

This is you, a man. 

This is you, free. 

This. This is your black and white canvas.


End file.
